


The Count

by Theteapotqueen



Category: Dream Theater (Band)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 17:50:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9453011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theteapotqueen/pseuds/Theteapotqueen
Summary: He doesn't know how it happened, or even what happened. In fact he doesn't even know if it really did happen.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based on a DT song so it should sort of count as fic. It's a bit darker and more... nightmarey than the song.  
> I guess it's what I imagined the first time I heard it, before I read/really heard the lyrics...

He doesn't know how it happened, or even what happened. In fact he doesn't even know if it really did happen. But somehow he's now sitting in the backseat of an expensive car, the smell of leather sticking in his nose and the low rumbling of a thirsty engine bussing in his ears. Outside the window the countryside's flashing by, sunlit fields and little cottages under a bright blue sky and a burning sun. 

In the rear-view mirror he can see a part of a mans face. He is tanned and clean-shaven, with perfectly styled dark hair and dark brown eyes under sharp eyebrows.

He's looking straight ahead, focused on his driving and not sparing his passenger a glance. Something about him makes the passenger think of the mafia and dark dungeons far away from civilization where no one can hear you scream. 

He swallows and turns his eyes back to the side window, trying not to think about the future. The fields and little houses are slowly replaced by endless rolling hills, the embodiment of most people’s heaven, but he fears it might turn out to be his hell. 

He doesn't dare say anything, the drivers hands looks capable of strangling men much stronger than himself and his eyes are hard, like someone has removed all his empathy. But still there is something about the rest of his features that reminds him more of an eccentric man than a killing machine. He isn't really sure what to think, or if he needs to think anything at all. 

He has no idea for how long they've been driving when the car finally slows down, but guesses that it must be hours, the sun has started setting and the shadow of the car outside the window has changed shape. They turn from the main road, onto a much smaller dirt road, the faint sound of small stones hitting the undercarriage now mixes in with the sound of the engine. 

When they finally stop it's on the driveway of a large stone mansion. 

It looks like a part of nature, like it has been there since the beginning of time. As cold and indifferent as a cliff wall it reaches towards the sky with black towers. Darkness has fallen and a soft mist makes its shape a bit blurry, he can't see where it begins or where it ends, only that it's very large and incredibly old.

The driver gets out and opens his door. 

'Welcome,' he says. His voice is deep with a distinguished accent and a sort of melody to it. 

He exits the car, legs a bit stiff from sitting so long and looks at the man in surprise. 

'Welcome?' he asks. Then somehow remembers his manners. 'Thank you.'  
'I imagine you would like to know where you are?'

'Yes.'

'Then let me explain. This place does not have a name. It is ancient and keeps its secrets better than any spy or secret agent that has ever lived. It is our home and our inheritance. It is a symbol of our way of life and our responsibility.' The man walks up the driveway.

'Our?' he asks, following.

'Yes. I would like you to meet my brother.' He gestures towards a figure standing a few steps outside the open door. Only the contours of a tall man are visible in the dim light coming from the room behind him. 

 

*

 

The rough stonewalls surrounding him are damp, and above him is a dome-shaped ceiling, a few drops of water dripping into pools on the hard floor. Behind him is a staircase curving up and out of sight, and further on in the room are shelves, filled with old bottles of wine. 

Beyond the shelves is a wooden door. It's plain, the wood is old and it looks like it should lead into a small closet but he senses that it conceals something far more important. It creaks open, a thin sliver of light falling on the floor, illuminating the pools of water. 

He walks towards it, slowly not sure if he wants to know what is beyond, but he has no choice. He reaches for the handle, but hasn't more than touched it before a felling hits him like a punch. 

He's suddenly sure he won't survive long enough to ever exit the room beyond the door. He cries out, but no sound comes over his lips. Everything about the seemingly quite normal wine cellar feels incredibly wrong. Suddenly he’s frightened for his life. 

A picture of a smiling family bathing in a pretty yellow light flashes before his eyes. It's the picture he took of his parents and siblings the last time he saw them. Could that have been the last time they saw him alive?

He won't survive. He thinks now that he’s known it since they arrived. 

Like in a scene from a movie he sees his hand pull the door open, he cannot stop it, only watches it happen, his heart beating faster for every inch the sliver of light on the floor grows.

A wide space is revealed, ceiling so high it disappears in darkness above him and walls laid in shadow. The light comes from a perfect circle of candles placed on what can only be describe as a large stone altar. 

'Would you care to see the heart of our home and the spiritual centre of our lives?' It's the deep voice of the man who drove the car. 

'Do I have a choice?' he asks, shaking, but he get's no answer. The room is empty except for himself and a figure hanging suspended over the circle of candles. He steps into the room, the sound of his heels hitting the floor echoes of the walls. The door closes behind him with a soft clicking noise, he knows he will never be able to open it and that it's the only one. He slowly makes his way towards the altar, the smell of burning wax in his nose and the sound of his steps echoing not only in the room, but also inside his head. 

He stops a few yards from the stone slab. There are at least twenty candles balancing directly on the smooth surface, illuminating what seems to be a soldier of a bygone age floating in mid air above them.

He looks up at the soldiers' face, heart beating faster than ever. It feels like it's trying to escape from his chest, like it knows its beats are counted if it stays. 

The soldier has no face and all faces. He represents all those who have died here, hundreds and hundreds of years ago. 

He realises he knows the story of this place. 

 

During times of war the soldiers of this land would hide here. They would listen to their enemies outside and they would pray. Pray until they had no prayers left, until their faith abandoned them and the notion of a god or higher power turned to nothing. Sometimes they would live, and sometimes they would die. These walls had seen more blood than any man. And still they remained cold and distant. This large dome under the mansion was not, as the deep voice had said, a place of spiritual belief or religion. It was a tomb in which countless young men had died and been buried, without ceremony and without names. Their families had never known what happened to them and in their final hours their god had abandoned them. 

 

He sinks down on is knees, unable to hold his weight up any longer. 

So this is where he'll die, sitting alone on a cold, hard floor, no one by his side and no one to hold his hand. No one to know, or to care. Alone, like so many young men before him. 

His parents will never know what happened to him and the girl he had just met will forget him.

Silent tears falls down his cheeks. He doesn't understand, doesn't feel he deserves this. What did he do wrong? He doesn't know.

The candles are burning low, spreading pools of molten wax over the black stone. A small rill escapes over the edge but hardens before it reaches the floor. A white line splitting the darkness. 

Somewhere far off water is slowly dripping, he didn't notice it before but it echoes around the walls, the only sound breaking the silence. 

His heart has slowed down now, he is barely breathing. Just waiting. Listening to the room. He can almost hear the soldiers' screams through the ages. The clattering of armour, swords hitting swords and swords hitting stone. Like an echo from a time worse than his own. 

'Give me a chance. Let me explain. I don't know how I ended up here, I don't even know where here is, please, just let me go,' he whispers into the silence. There's a click coming from the door. 

'Do not be afraid. No one here would try to hurt you. This is just how we live. It may seem strange. The fables, the tales. Handed down through time. From generation to generation. It is our inheritance, it is our life. Please. Do try to forgive. You are free to go at any time you choose. Go. Tell our story to the world. Tell them about my brother. Tell them about our life and our stories. Tell them about me. The Count of Tuscany.' The deep voice comes from the door. He turns and, surrounded by darkness, is the shape of the eccentric driver. 

The Count stretches out his hand towards him. 

He gets up, walks back towards the door, expecting it to close any second, but it doesn't. Instead he exits the underground dome and steps out of the vast room and into the wine cellar, then up the stairs. 

At the top there is a wide open door leading into a softly lit dining room, the table is beautifully set, with candles, wineglasses and neatly folded napkins. 

'Come, have a taste. It is a rare vintage.' It's the brother. He pours a glass full of red liquid and holds it out towards him. He takes it. Tastes it. It's sweet and fruity and while he drinks the room becomes blurry. Soon all he can see is the difference between light and darkness. Then the darkness takes over and everything disappears.


End file.
